


News of the Village

by jessikast



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (Hey that's what my name means!), (Mr Pickersgill is a prick), Animal Abuse, Animal abusers are killed, Apple festival, Apples, Aziraphale invented GBBO, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Dog, Birdwatching (or IS IT), Bring Your Pet To School Day, Christmas, Fade to Black, First Kiss, Flying, Gen, God is watching, Homophobia, Lower Tadfield (Good Omens), M/M, Minor Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Mr Pickersgill, Reality TV, Reference to animal death, Reference to hemipenes, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Vignettes, Wingfic, church, hand holding, holiday fic, newspaper, very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 13:43:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21375082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessikast/pseuds/jessikast
Summary: Whoever does the reporting for theTadfield Advertiserprobably has more exciting days at work once Aziraphale and Crowley hit Lower Tadfield.A series of vignettes of Aziraphale and Crowley and Tadfield village life.(Mostly 100% soft and sweet, warning for animal harm and reference to animal death which is WELL AND TRULY avenged.)Tadfield Advertiser, “Birdwatching Group On the Lookout”. Members of the local Tadfield Twitchers Club were excited to find some unusually large feathers in fields just outside the village, and say that these are an indication that a non-local species may be passing by....
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 349





	News of the Village

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a reference to the Queen album "News of The World", because why write Good Omens fic without going hard on Queen-related titles?
> 
> Many thanks to apocryphalia for the beta, any remaining errant commas or 'angle' instead of 'angel' are my own!

Having spent a lot of time in London, Crowley was finding the contrast of Tadfield rather charming, despite himself. Cities just had so much _scope_ for the temptations and mischief he liked, not to mention that the sheer _scale_ of metropolises like London were modern enough that he still enjoyed the novelty.

But. Somehow the humans who had been involved with the End of the World hadn’t drifted back into their own lives. Crowley found himself getting text messages from Anathema and Snapchats from Adam. (Snapchat being, of course, an infernal invention. Does that even need saying?) Aziraphale’s lack of smartphone meant that Crowley’s phone was, by default, getting messages for both of them, but it gave him another excuse to hang out at the bookshop so he didn’t mind too much. (Of course, he SAID he minded. At length. Aziraphale just smiled and nodded, infuriatingly.)

The first invitation was a celebration for Newt’s new job. It started awkwardly: the adrenaline and panic that had united so many disparate people (and beings) at the Apocalypse didn’t translate very well to a respectable, organised social gathering.

Crowley and Aziraphale were rather out of practise at socialising with people other than each other, especially when those people knew their angelic and demonic natures. (Some knew it better than others. Anathema and Adam’s memories and understanding of the Last Day were fairly clear. Newt and the rest of the Them remembered that something happened, but their own minds – in pure self-defence – were papering over it, justifying it with explanations that made sense in a more ordinary way. Think _gas leaks_. Dog had a very accurate understanding of it all, from a doggish perspective, and had quietly decided that he adored Crowley. Mr. and Mrs. Young had no idea what it was all about, and were pleasantly puzzled at their son’s expanded circle of friends, but had no real objections. Everyone seemed very respectable, and Mr. Young was under the impression that Crowley – who wasn’t _that_ respectable – was a doctor.)

The disparatate parties gathered at Jasmine Cottage, where there was awkward shuffling and aborted attempts at conversation. Oddly, it was that old English standby, the weather, that broke the social ice.

“Nice weather for the time of year, isn’t it?” ventured Mr. Young, gamely. He had gone so far as to roll up his sleeves and was prepared to Man the Barbecue. (It was agreed by everyone that, even though the gathering was at Jasmine Cottage, Newt was _not_ to be in charge of fire.)

“Did you know that Tadfield has actually had the most consistent average temperatures, year-to-year, for any location in Britain?” Newt replied. This was rather off-script – Mr Young expected an agreeable murmur about the possibility of a day-trip to the seaside or the odds of getting the laundry dry – so he was momentarily stymied. This was Anathema’s opportunity to bring up global warming, a topic she could speak passionately about at some length, while the Them listened attentively and the Youngs nodded politely, slightly unsure how to respond. Aziraphale looked at Newt, who was gazing at Anathema with such happy adoration, and sighed contentedly to himself. It was quite lovely sometimes to be sitting in proximity to Young Love, the emotional equivalent of a delightfully tart-sweet sherbert.

Anathema had reached carbon credits and the impact of air travel including _unnecessary military apparatuses _when Adam interrupted. “There’s not even any proper planes at the airbase, though. It’s rubbish. When we went with school I wanted to see the jets and the bombers and the stealth planes, but it’s just computers.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” said Newt, who still kept a box of the carefully assembled model planes from his childhood. (And teenage years. And early twenties.) “Isn’t it still a restricted airspace? I’ve actually been keeping an eye out for planes, but I haven’t even seen any civilian aircraft.”

“I actually rather like it,” put in Mrs. Young. “They put the restriction in place back when the Americans built the base, and never got around to removing it, even now the Americans have gone back home and there’s talk of decommissioning it. Makes it nice and peaceful. Crostini, anyone?”

(It should be noted that, shortly after the Apoca-didn’t-happen, the US air force realised that, for some reason, it was maintaining an airbase in a strategically unimportant corner of rural England, and was going about rectifying this.)

“Oh, yes please!” said Aziraphale, accepting the plate from Mrs. Young, so his mouth was full when Crowley sat up slowly from where he was sprawled on the wooden seat next to him.

“Sorry, did you say that the whole area around Tadfield is restricted airspace, but that there’s not _actually_ any flights around here?”

“Exactly. Rubbish!” declared Adam. (Now that he was really thinking about it, had he still been in the full flush of reality-bending-potential that he’d unconsciously wielded pre-Apocawasn’t, it would have been quite likely that a few jets would have found themselves surprised to be re-routed to a rural English airbase.)

“So. Did you hear that, angel?” Crowley leaned over to talk to Aziraphale in an undertone as the conversation moved past them. “An _unused, unmonitored_ restricted air space?”

“Hmm?”

“Where just about _anyone_ who wanted to fly could, without any other pesky aircraft, or drones, or, I’m guessing from Tadfield’s sluggishness to embrace modern technology, security cameras trained on the sky?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true, but… oh! Do you mean…?”

Crowley pulled down his glasses just enough to make proper eye contact with Aziraphale. “_Yes_, I mean. What do you think?”

Aziraphale’s face took on an expression that could only be described as _downright chuffed_. “Well, I suppose it would be safe enough. Tonight, do you suppose?”

Crowley just winked, pushed his glasses back up his nose, and turned his attention back to the gathering, where there was ample opportunity to nudge the Them into the kind of small mischiefs that delighted the demon. Aziraphale wriggled slightly in his seat in anticipation and declined a second helping of appetisers when the platter was offered. Wouldn’t do to be too weighed down, after all!

Hours later, after the gathering had broken up and all humans who needed sleep had retired to their beds, two beings who did _not_ need sleep climbed out of the Bentley, parked off the side of the road winding down a hill on the far side of Tadfield. Aziraphale folded his coat and waistcoat carefully on the back seat, and stood back from the car, shaking out his limbs and stretching a little. The air was decidedly chilly, the temperature having dropped quickly once the sun was down, and he could smell a little woodsmoke from Tadfield’s chimneys mixed with the loamy scent of the forest and fields. Sound carried; there was the occasional distant noise of a car on a busier road, the quiet bustling sounds of rodents and the nocturnal birds who hunted them, a dog barking.

Aziraphale started a little when Crowley spoke in a low tone next to him. “I think this spot’ll do.”

Aziraphale turned. Crowley’s wings were already out, the demon not being bothered by the effect on manifested clothes. (Wings didn’t leave holes, but garments just weren’t the _same_ after. Aziraphale was willing to sacrifice this shirt, but certainly not the coat!) The sunglasses, at least, were off, safe in the car. (Aziraphale supposed that if a human _should_ see them, Crowley’s yellow eyes would be the least remarkable thing.)

“Yes, it should do quite nicely,” he replied. Aziraphale pulled out his wings from the space where they existed when they weren’t visible (just through the skin of reality), and felt his spine click a little at the welcome extra weight. The angel gave his wings a bit of a shake, longer feathers settling into place, and a handful of smaller white feathers falling off. That was the problem with spending so long – decades at a time, recently – without even getting the wings out regularly. Out of sight, out of mind, the usual grooming routines fell by the wayside. Sloth, really, _not_ a habit a conscientious angel should allow to creep in!

“You’ve just got….” said Crowley, reaching out to pull off a wayward feather that hadn’t blown off. Aziraphale felt himself colour slightly at the attention.

“Oh, thank you, my dear. And may I…?” at Crowley’s nod he gestured for Crowley to turn around, and took a moment to smooth down the feathers at the top of Crowley’s wings. They’d actually done this for each other once or twice in the old days – not a proper _grooming_ like some angels sat together to do, that was really quite intimate, but it was certainly handy to have another pair of hands around when you couldn’t _quite_ reach a spot a foot back from your own shoulder blades. Then, times had moved forward and beings posted on earth were directed to keep to a human-seeming corporation at all times, if possible. Goodness, Aziraphale couldn’t even remember the last time he and Crowley had _flown_ together – the 6th century, perhaps? And that wasn’t for pleasure, more that they’d needed a fast exit from a conflicting temptation and blessing gone awry.

Aziraphale realised Crowley’s feathers were smooth, although his hands were still moving, now just stroking the wings. He shook himself and gave the coverts a brisk pat.

“All spick-and-span!” Aziraphale said brightly. Crowley looked over his shoulder with a grin.

“Well!” the demon said. “Race you to the airbase?”

“On the count of three? One, two…oh no, you _cheated_!” A gleeful cackle was the only reply as Crowley ran a few steps and leapt into the air, black wings beating strongly to lift him off the side of the hill. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and took off after him. Crowley tended to have the edge for pure speed, and was rather good at manoeuvring, but Aziraphale fancied his wings were slightly stouter and he’d always been good at gaining height quickly.

The cold wind rushed against Aziraphale’s face as he flew upwards. He could feel the muscles in his back, shoulders and chest stretching and it felt amazingly satisfying. He’d never seen the appeal of exercise like jogging, but _this_ physical exertion, the kind that actually wasn’t purely on the mortal plane (the physics didn’t _actually_ work unless you were a supernatural being with a bit of built-in magic)… well, it was just _fun_. He climbed until he could see Crowley maybe fifty metres below him, skimming above the trees and making good speed, a dark shape above a darker landscape, except where the occasional beam of moonlight from the slightly overcast sky reflected dark iridescence on the wings. Marking his target, Aziraphale tucked his own wings in for a dive. His focus narrowed to Crowley ahead and below him, as he went faster and yet faster still. Minute adjustments of feathers to keep him on course, and then….

“Ha!” called Aziraphale as he rushed past Crowley, just as they drew even with the quietly shut-down airbase. He opened his wings and allowed air resistance to slow him as Crowley swore, buffeted in his wake.

“Oi, you bastard!” yelled Crowley, who had been flying close enough to the ground that when he lost control he’d tumbled onto the grass, rolling over a few times before coming to a stop, limbs and wings akimbo.

It would, of course, be bad form for an angel to gloat. So, whatever emotion Aziraphale was expressing was certainly not _that_. He did feel slightly guilty when he looped back around to Crowley, landing neatly and offering him a hand up. Crowley glared for a moment, then accepted, dusting himself off. “Would you mind…?” he asked, stretching one wing towards Aziraphale. The angel dutifully pulled out a pocket handkerchief and used it to brush twigs and leaves out of the outermost feathers until they lay flat and shiny again.

“You know you only managed that because it was a straight run,” said Crowley. “Wouldn’t be the same story if we made it a bit interesting, threw in a few obstacles.”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale replied. “I know you have a few fancy aeronautic tricks under your belt, but there’s something to be said for good, solid flying technique.”

“Hmm! We’ll see! How about…back to the Bentley, but with a loop down the creek bed, touching the steeple going past the village…”

“Very well! The game is, as they say, on!”

“Aziraphale, no one’s said that since 1920.”

About an hour later, Anathema found herself awake, driven by one of those odd little urges that the slightly psychic learn to follow. She slid out of the warm bed beside Newt and tiptoed to the window, twitching back the curtain to look at the silent village, the only movement a cat stalking along the top of a fence and some nocturnal bird of prey circling over the Hogback Wood. After a moment she heard a distant whoop and an answering laugh, and realised that it wasn’t one pale owl she was looking at, but two, and the wingspans were rather larger than she’d expected. She smiled and padded down to the kitchen.

As they drove back through Tadfield in the wee hours on their return to London, tired, dishevelled (even Aziraphale), and still laughing a bit, our favourite angel and demon were surprised to spot a thermos prominently sitting on top of the gate post at Jasmine Cottage, with a piece of white paper taped to it. “**This is for you**,” it said in bold letters, then slightly smaller: “Yes, you two. It’s cold out there!” Then a smiley face with a little pointed witch’s hat in lieu of a signature.

The thermos contained, to both their pleasure, hot cocoa with just enough liqueur to make it _really_ warming. “Witches!” Aziraphale said approvingly, and Crowley hummed in satisfied agreement.

_Tadfield Advertiser, “Birdwatching Group On the Lookout”. Members of the local Tadfield Twitchers Club were excited to find some unusually large feathers in fields just outside the village, and say that these are an indication that a non-local species may be passing by. Muriel Welch, president of the club, says that the black and white feathers are longer than any of the usually-seen birds are known to have, and asked for Tadfield locals to be on the look-out for anything out of the ordinary. “They could be from an escaped exotic bird, maybe even a vulture. Or of course, they could be from swans, but it would have to be from a larger bird than the ones in the pond here.” Any sightings can be reported to…._

* * *

Lower Tadfield’s little church was just _charming_. Aziraphale regarded it fondly. Of course, as an angel he knew that God was in all places and anywhere could be a place of worship, and he also knew that some places called churches were just as holy as shopping malls – soulless places that were more about the image and power of the people who ran them. But little places like this…! He could feel the centuries of loving worship emanating from the stones, the warmth of genuine _community_ that had come together here. The worn stone lintel, heavy pews rubbed smooth by generations of parishioners, the light that came through the old and beautiful stained-glass window, the faded carved text in the stone flags beneath his feet where early Tadfielders of importance had been buried under the floor…

In short, it was everything Aziraphale liked in a church.

It was just such a _shame_ about the vicar.

Mr. Pickersgill was, to Aziraphale’s disapproval, an utter _prick_. Of course, Aziraphale held that all humans held opportunities for their own redemption, etcetera, etcetera. And certainly, Mr. Pickersgill hadn’t committed any unforgivable sins. He hadn’t even committed any medium-sized ones, no skimming off the top of church funds or tupping any lonely, attractive middle-aged widows who came to him for solace.

(He’d certainly _thought_ about it, as Crowley pointed out when Aziraphale complained.)

Mr. Pickersgill was just a thoroughly unpleasant human being. He had no patience for any of the skylarking hijinks of children in the village. His sermons were boring, repetitive and largely responsible for the dwindling congregation. He was rude to shopkeepers and parked in disabled spots. A higher percentage of couples married by him divorced than the national average. Back in 2005, he had given a sermon directly after the new Harry Potter novel had been released, in which he railed against children reading fantasy drivel instead of Improving Literature and had spoiled the events of page 606 well before many of the younger congregational members had had a chance to read that far. (Or their furious parents, for that matter.) He wanted to renovate the interior of the church, and seemed annoyed and baffled that the local historical society had been so horrified at the idea.

Even R. P. Tyler disliked him. Mr. Tyler had a lot of pride in the village, of course, and was rather cross that their vicar wasn’t as picture-perfect as the church he worked in.

The tipping point was this:

“Hello! Is anyone here?” called Aziraphale cheerily, stepping through the door and breathing in the old stone and beeswax smell with pleasure. He’d only met the vicar in passing a couple of times, and hadn’t thought much of him, but a request from the newly affianced Anathema had brought him here on this little errand.

Crowley was outside, leaning against the wall that encircled the church, and trying to look like he was lurking. With the worst will in the world, even the most malicious of demons would have a difficult time lurking in the warm late-morning sunshine and blossom-scented breeze while a quintessentially pleasant little English village bustled around them. Crowley was there as a favour to a friend, moreover, so he couldn’t even summon up the innate lurkishness that comes with being somewhere as an _evil deed_. He gave up after three cheerful greetings from Tadfield residents who vaguely knew him by sight as Young Adam’s Friend Oh And He Knows that Nice American Girl, sighed in disgust with himself, and turned to see if he could read any of the epitaphs on the headstones in the graveyard. Maybe someone had died in a horribly interesting way? That would be nice.

In the church, Mr. Pickersgill had emerged, and was cautiously greeting Aziraphale, trying to place him. The gentleman was dressed well, but the clothes weren’t _new_. Not wealthy, then? But he had that kind of benevolent enthusiasm that usually meant well for donations to the church’s roof fund…

“Reverend Pickersgill? My name is Mr. Fell. I was hoping for a moment of your time, if you don’t mind. I just wanted to ask a few questions about a slightly, ah, unconventional wedding we’re hoping to hold here, and…”

What Aziraphale meant was a wedding between a young man who was—at Easter and Christmas, at least—appropriately Church of England, and a young woman who was as witchy as they came and had reached out to the closest thing she knew to a Man of God to help her decide if the local church would be able to accommodate a little flexibility about some Wiccan traditions she wanted to incorporate.

Mr. Pickersgill looked past Aziraphale, and through the open door saw Crowley waiting by the wall. He looked at the well-attired Londoner in front of him, at the flash, black-clad man lounging outside, and drew some rather different conclusions. (Not that they were entirely _incorrect_, it must be said.)

The prissy vicar drew himself up and looked down his nose at Aziraphale. “I’m afraid,” he said coldly, “that this is a _traditional_ church. We respect _family values_. I think you’ll find that… _your type_ aren’t welcome here.”

Some people thought that Aziraphale didn’t really realise how he came across. These people were wrong. Yes, Aziraphale had a tendency to seem a little vague and sweetly myopic, he was optimistic about seeing the best in people, and his sense of fashion was between fifty and a hundred-and-fifty years out of date. But he had also been on Earth for six-thousand years, had a very finely tuned sense of social justice, and last but not least, he had a very accurate line on which parts of the Bible were _actually_ divinely inspired – having the advantage of doing the divine inspiring - and which were Products Of Their Time.

Aziraphale grasped immediately what the vicar was insinuating. Anyone who knew him would have seen the way he straightened his cuffs and the way his eyes went bright and hard, and started backing away. The vicar wasn’t so perceptive. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” said Aziraphale pleasantly. “What type is that? Do you not like Londoners?”

The vicar sniffed. “Are you familiar with Leviticus? Or perhaps even someone like _you_ has heard of what befell Sodom and Gomorrah?”

Aziraphale tilted his head quizzically. With exquisite timing, Crowley, outside the church, sensed the electrical tension in the air that heralded divine wrath and called out. “All okay in there, angel?”

The vicar smiled smugly. “I must insist that you and your… _boy toy_ leave these premises. Unless you are here to repent of your perversion, you are not welcome in a house of God.”

“Really?” said Aziraphale quietly. “Well, if such a scholar of the Bible as yourself says so…”

“Indeed. If you don’t mind?” The vicar gestured to the door.

Aziraphale walked to the door, but only made eye contact with Crowley before closing the door and turning back to the vicar.

Outside Crowley had seen the expression on Azriraphale’s face. “Oh, _shit,”_ he said quietly, and with no small amount of glee.

Inside the church, the vicar was confused and angry. “Excuse me, I asked you to leave-“

Aziraphale stalked forward, forcing the vicar to stumble backwards towards the pulpit. “I must be mistaken,” he said. “I had thought the church was a place of love and acceptance. That a man in your position had the _privilege_ of representing the love of God, of being able to open your arms in welcome, opening the doors of a place that is sacred and consecrated.”

Aziraphale stopped, standing above the open-mouthed vicar, who had stumbled back to sit on the steps leading to the front of the church. Above and behind Aziraphale was a stained-glass window, which had, until now, depicted a weirdly proportioned and beatific lamb. It now (with improved artistic skill) showed an angel, white wings spread wide, wielding a flaming sword. A shaft of light abruptly poured through the window, illuminating it, and from the vicar’s perspective the wings of the window appeared to be spreading from behind the man in front of him. He looked at the stern expression and, for the first time in his life, genuinely found faith.

Aziraphale looked at the man quivering in front of him and abruptly his anger turned to sad exhaustion. “You do not _get_ to pass judgement on your fellow man. You have fallen short in your duty to _love_.” He paused, and the light behind him faded, seeming to turn him from avenging angel into a tired man. “I think it would be for the best if you found another line of work. The church will always be open for your repentance, but your service is no longer needed.” He looked at the dazed, fearful expression on Mr. Pickersgill’s face, and abruptly crouched next to him, employing a simpler method of communication. “God will always _love_ you, but right now, I don’t think she _likes_ you very much. She’s not angry, she’s just… disappointed.”

Mr. Pickersgill nodded frantically. He had taken the cloth because it had seemed like the easy, expected option for an overlooked and mediocre middle son. Perhaps it was a time for a midlife career change after all.

Outside the church, Crowley slowly clapped as Aziraphale came back out the door to where he was waiting. “Did you _finally_ put that mean little vicar in his place? Was it amazing? Did he _cry_?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, you know I don’t really enjoy that kind of thing. I just got… angry. Righteous. It had to be done, but… it always makes me feel all churned up inside.” He rubbed his belly pensively.

Crowley put a comforting arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you a cup of tea and a scone. That will set you right. Nice work with the window, by the way, saw that from the outside.”

“The window? That wasn’t me, I assumed it was you. Seemed just like your kind of dramatics.” Crowley shook his head, and they both looked back at the window. It had changed again – the spread-winged avenging angel was now standing with relaxed wings, a halo behind its blonde hair, eyes downcast, arms open in welcome.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, eyes wide behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale’s eyes widened as well in understanding. Mutely, Crowley pointed one finger up at the sky and raised his eyebrows in question.

“I… I guess She’s still keeping an eye on her Creation after all,” said Aziraphale faintly. “And… us.”

“Well, you at least, the angel…” Crowley trailed off as Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, _us_. Look…” Coiled around the wrist of the stained-glass angel was a small black snake, tongue flickered out to touch the open palm of the angel.

Crowley felt the stomach-swooping sensation that comes with realising you’ve just been chatting with your favourite celebrity and had spinach in your teeth the whole time. “How do you feel about some hard liquor instead of a cup of tea?”

“You know, I think that would rather hit the spot….”

_Tadfield Advertiser, “New vicar for Tadfield church”. St Mary’s Church is to welcome a new vicar, after the unexpected departure of the Reverend Pickersgill, now understood to be taking up a new career as a tax actuary in Norton. Mrs. Michelle Bates will be known to many in the community, as she grew up in Tadfield before leaving for theological college. She spent two decades doing humanitarian work throughout Central Africa, where she met her husband. They are looking forward to settling into Tadfield with their two daughters. Mrs. Bates is excited to catch up with old friends and family in the community and meet new members of the congregation._

* * *

“I don’t think I did this one.”

“Pardon?”

“Reality TV, that was my idea, right?”

“Yes. I know, you’re very proud of it.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t have a hand in this one. I don’t know where it came from. It’s so _nice_! It single-handedly undoes all the good – well, bad – of half the programmes I had set up.”

“Oh, I know! _I_ did this one!”

Crowley swung his feet off the table and turned to look at Aziraphale. “_You_. You did reality TV?”

“I was thwarting! Did a good job, didn’t I?”

“You created _The Great British Bake Off_ just to thwart me?” Crowley narrowed his eyes. “No. I don’t believe it.”

Aziraphale looked sanctimonious. “Of course! Reality TV is awful! Full of _wiles_. I simply had to do _something_!”

“Mm-hmm. And the baking, that had nothing to do with it? You’re telling me that you’re not watching and taking notes, making sure you’ve tried every variety of cake and biscuit? That you’re not drooling over the drizzles and the creams, the-“

“Oh, stop it! You’re making me-“

“_Hungry_?”

_Tadfield Advertiser, “Community Noticeboard”. Calling all bakers! Fundraising for the Lower Tadfield Ladies Society will be in a new format this year – forget your old bake sale, this year they’re running The Great Tadfield Bake Off! Prospective contestants are invited to make one batch of ‘signature biscuits’ and bring them to the Community Hall on Sunday…_

* * *

“I think it’s going to be _wicked_,” Adam said, as the Them wandered home from school, talking about the logistics of Bring Your Pet To School Day.

“Of course you do, your pet is brilliant,” said Pepper. “I’ve only got old Mrs. Whiskers, and you know how she is with the carry cage. The rules say you can only bring your pet if it’s well-behaved and restrained or in a suitable enclosure.” She kicked a stone disconsolately.

“I’m just going to take my stick insect.” Wensleydale put in. “They’re ever so interesting if you really study them.”

“No, they’re not,” said the other three.

“They don’t even eat each other, that turned out to be praying mantises,” said Brian. “I think I’d really like to have a pet that _does_ something, you know, like it _could_ eat other pets. If I wanted it to. Or even people!”

Adam eyed Dog. He had a vague feeling that Dog was agreeing with Brian. “_Be good_,” he hissed at him. Dog wagged his tail.

“What, like a spider?” asked Wensleydale.

“No, not insects-“

“Spiders are arachnids, actually-“

“I was thinking like a snake! That would be fantastic.”

Serendipitously, at this moment the Them were walking past Jasmine Cottage. And right there, stretched out on top of the stone wall, basking in the sunlight, was a snake. And what a snake! Not some harmless little garden snake: this thing was at _least_ two meters long, solid and thick, and all black.

It was the most amazing snake they’d ever seen. Even better than the python at the zoo.

The Them stopped and stared in astonished admiration.

“Do you think it’s Anathema’s?” Brian asked in a hushed voice. “Like… her _familiar?”_

“Stands to reason, doesn’t it?” said Adam. He’d never heard Anathema mention having anything so fantastic as a gigantic snake pet, but it seemed like a very _occulist_ thing to have. “She probably uses it to do spells and, and sends it to spy on her enemies. I bet it’s really smart.”

“Oooohhh,” said the others.

“Do… do you think it _understands_ us?” asked Pepper suddenly. “If it’s that smart?”

All of the Them fell silent and looked at the snake with sudden suspicion. The snake lay still, its tongue occasionally flickering out to taste the air. Was it looking _at_ them?

“If it’s her pet—“ The snake hissed quietly. The children didn’t notice. “—could we take it for Pet Day? Do the rules say that you can only bring your _own_ pet?” There was a moment, as each child imagined _themselves_ walking in the door of the school with such a magnificent snake wrapped around their shoulders. Even Wensleydale, whose imagination usually tended to the most mundane, wasn’t immune.

“We’ll just ask Anathema,” said Adam, taking charge. He marched past the snake, let himself in the gate, and knocked on the front door. He could hear Anathema talking to someone as she came to the door.

“…of course I couldn’t bring all my volumes from home, but you’re welcome to look through the ones I have here. Oh, hello Adam!”

“Hullo, Anathema. I’m sorry to interrupt, I didn’t know you had company,” said Adam politely. (For all that some people in the village would be surprised to see Adam display manners, he _was_ well brought-up.) “We were wondering, we just saw that snake outside and we wanted to know—“

“Snake?” said Anathema in some surprise. “I didn’t know there were many snakes around here.”

Mr. Fell came up to the door, finger holding his place in a book. “Is it, by any chance, a large black snake?” The Them nodded. “That’s mine, I’m afraid.” He poked his head out the door until he could see the snake, and tutted under his breath before calling out to the snake. “I thought you said you were going to be checking out the garden?” The snake moved for the first time, lifting its head to look at Mr. Fell and hissing, revealing a rusty red belly. “You can get sunshine in London! Oh, fine, if you must.”

“Is that _your_ pet snake, Mr. Fell?” Wensleydale asked.

“Pet…? Oh, I suppose if you squint…”

“Is it tame? Could we borrow him?” Adam got straight to the point. He scuffed one toe against the ground and widened his eyes, going for ‘innocent urchin’. He was only marginally successful.

Aziraphale frowned. “Tame? Not by any definition of the word. Why do you need to borrow a _snake?”_

“It’s for school,” explained Pepper. “It’s Pet Day tomorrow.”

“Educational!” said Wensleydale, who actually had a better idea than Adam in this instance about how to appeal to a man like Mr. Fell.

“I don’t know…” said Aziraphale. The snake hissed at him again, and his expression turned to surprise. “Really? Well, I suppose I can bring him down. I can’t, er, lend him to any of you, but we can pop in. In the interests of an educational experience, of course.”

_Tadfield Advertiser, “Chaos at Local School Pet Day”. The ‘Bring Your Pet To School Day’ at Tadfield Primary and Intermediate ended in unexpected disruption earlier this week. School principal, Peter Hinds, explained that the annual event is an opportunity for students to learn about zoology, biology and spur important conversations about the responsibilities of pet ownership, while allowing the students with ‘well-behaved and appropriate’ pets to have some fun in the school environment. “We usually see dogs, small animals such as rabbits and guinea pigs, and the occasional tame livestock – sheep or ponies,” said Mr. Hinds. “This year some of the students prevailed on a friend with an exotic pet to visit. While we welcome, in theory, experienced handlers of different animals, the pets already present at the school were not accustomed to snakes, and many of them escaped in the disruption…”_

_Tadfield Advertiser, Classifieds. “REWARD OFFERED: Missing rabbit, large black and white domestic breed, male…”_

Aziraphale was sitting stiffly in the front seat of the Bentley as they left Tadfield at some speed. “Crowley, that was rather mean spirited of you! I have to admit I’m surprised and a little shocked. If you were hungry…”

Crowley winced. “Oh, I didn’t eat that blasted rabbit. You know that if I had I’d be sleeping it off for a week, it was practically a Flemish giant. No, it took off of its own accord, it’s happily making little baby rabbits with the local wild population. It’ll lope home soon enough.”

Aziraphale relaxed a little but wasn’t entirely appeased. He was fond of rabbits. They were just adorable in magic shows. (And, he admitted to himself, occasionally quite delicious.) “I don’t know why you said you’d go in the first place, if you were just going to be horrid and scare the pets.”

Crowley squirmed. “I wasn’t planning on it! I was just going to hang off your shoulders. I liked the idea of the kids having a bit of interest in herpetology. Bit more interesting than guinea pigs and hamsters. See where altruism gets me…”

“So, what happened?”

“Wikipedia.”

“That was one of my ideas, you know. I know you don’t think I’m all that savvy on the _World Wide Web_—”

“No one calls it that any more. Just say ‘internet,’ _please_.”

“—but it’s the most remarkable repository of knowledge.”

“I know, I know. I claimed the whole ‘spending hours on useless Wikipedia spirals’ for my side, by the way. Well, one of those kids looked up snakes. How quietly would _you_ sit still if a horde of pre-teens decided to see if they could tell if _you_ had two penises?”

A pause. Crowley could see Aziraphale thinking. “…When you’re a snake, _do _you—“

“Aziraphale, don’t you dare say _one more word_.”

Aziraphale said nothing, very loudly.

Finally, Crowley slumped in his seat. “Need to make an Effort,” he muttered. “Same as with a human corporation. Then yes, I’m biologically a bloody snake, I have hemipenes. And I swear, if you ask one more—“

“Nope!” said Aziraphale brightly. He looked out the passenger window and didn’t snigger. Crowley snarled and put his foot on the accelerator. Next time he saw those kids he was going to _bite them_.

* * *

Dog fancied that he’d rather found his place in Tadfield. Life had settled into a very acceptable pattern for a small dog. His Master’s kennel was warm in winter, with a soft dog bed placed at the perfect distance from the fireplace, and in summer the flagged stones outside were lovely and cool to flop down on. His Master’s parents seemed to appreciate his role in their life: Mum was gratifyingly quick to ‘accidentally’ drop a little meat scrap here and there in the kitchen, and Dad would deny it but he was quite happy to absentmindedly scratch a small dog behind the ears if said small dog sidled up on the sofa when Dad was reading the paper.

His Master went to that ‘school’ place during most days, and Dog occupied himself with his little patrols. It was his job, after all, his _fated duty_ as a hellhound to keep his Master safe. He had a route all worked out, leaving his Master at the school gates and trotting off to circle Tadfield, poking his nose into the most interesting-smelling places, bumping noses and sniffing the bottoms of other dogs through gates and fences, keeping the local cats in line (at least that’s what he told himself), making his contribution to the canine message boards that were lampposts.

Tadfield was generally a rather nice, quiet place, so it was actually a bit of a surprise to Dog when he detected the scent of actual _cruelty_ one day. Nose to the ground, he ran towards the central village, following the smell, and his sharp ears soon heard what he was on the trail of: nasty, jeering human laughter, drifting out of a back alley behind the shops, the yips and yelps of a dog in pain, and the yowl of an angry cat.

Dog stopped, stiff-legged, and growled. It was a louder growl than should have been possible for such a small dog. Deep in his eyes there was a glint of red. He stalked towards the source of the sounds and peered around the corner. There were three young men – older than teenagers, definitely old enough to know better – and they had that ridiculous little dachshund, Shutzi, at their feet. Shutzi was holding one paw gingerly off the ground, whimpering. He yelped again as they kicked him. Tied to a fence by one hind leg was a half-grown cat, one of the better of the homeless alley cats, barely more than a kitten, and one Dog was particularly fond of. It was bound with twine, and Dog could smell the blood where the thin string was cutting into its skin. The men were sniggering at the cat as it spat and hissed, trying to get away while they kicked Shutzi towards it. “G’wan, fight!” they were ordering the animals. “Fiver on the cat winning.”

“Nah, ‘s not fair, the dog’s only on three legs. Stupid thing!”

A switchblade was pulled out and flicked, considering. “Hold that cat still a mo’, we can even it up.”

The stink of sin was _thick_ on the humans. Dog paused. As a, well, dog, he could cause a ruckus, get in there, nip a few ankles.

But. As a _hound_ he could do more. Hellhounds couldn’t go after every sinner on earth, of course – there were far too many of them, and most sins were tawdry little things that would get balanced out on the cosmic scales anyway. But sometimes, he could smell a soul and he just _knew_ it was so far gone it was Hell’s already, and those were fair game. The only problem was that he couldn’t just go after them on his own say-so. He needed the command, a master – or Master – to usher the soul when he’d caught it.

Master was at school. Dog whined in indecision, then his ears heard the sound of a familiar engine. He growled once more, then spun around to race up the main street, catching the car as it paused at the general store. “Anathema asked us to bring a bottle of milk, she was nearly out,” the angel was saying. Dog sniffed and sneezed. Angels always made his nose prickle, like taking a whiff of icy air and pepper.

Dog ran to the other side of the car, jumping at the window where the demon was sitting. He barked frantically until the demon opened the car door, then – feeling daring – jumped onto his lap.

“Hullo, hound,” said the demon. “What’s all this fuss about—“

Dog let the Hellishness inside himself roil up for a moment, and stopped barking. His eyes glowed red, and he growled, looking the demon in the eye. _Hunt_, he thought. _Chase. Mine_.

The demon stilled. “Why didn’t you say so?” He got out of the car, putting Dog carefully down on the pavement. “Be back in a tick!” he called out to the angel, still inside the store. “All right, Dog,” he said quietly. “Lead the way.”

Dog raced back to the alley, the demon walking briskly behind, jogging a step now and then to keep up. As they got closer the demon took in a breath, smelling the same sin on the air that Dog had detected. “Right,” said the demon. He slowed, and crept to look around the corner, taking in the situation at a glance.

Dog looked too. Two of the humans had managed to grab hold of the frantically struggling cat, while the other came closer with the knife. The demon’s lip curled in disgust. “They weren’t ever even _tempted_ into something like that. It’s just plain human cruelty at its worst.” Dog whined, urgently. The demon looked at him. “Dog, _fetch._”

With a satisfied growl Dog, off his metaphorical leash, zipped around the corner. The humans – his _prey_ – spotted him and one elbowed the others. “Here, look, grab that one, he seems feisty—“ He broke off and yelled in surprise when Dog sank his teeth into his calf.

The cat was dropped and the humans backed up in surprise, trying to kick Dog away. Dog snarled, and went in again. The wounds from the bites he made, nipping in and around ankles and reaching hands, were larger than they ought to have been. Flesh was torn by, somehow, more and sharper teeth than Dog physically possessed, and when he could, Dog worried at the wounds, yanking on semi-invisible soul-stuff that was leaking out of them along with blood. The smoky vapour was rank and rotten. Dog loved it.

It was over relatively quickly. The three humans lay dead on the ground – not that the blood loss was enough to kill them, but humans didn’t do well with their souls torn from their bodies. Dog pulled the stinking piles of souls toward the demon, happily shaking his head like a terrier with a rat. The demon was calmly leaning against a wall, and straightened to crouch next to Dog, giving him a rough pat on the head. “Good boy,” he said, and Dog wagged his tail, licking his chops in satisfaction. The demon gestured, gathering the souls into a kind of faintly visible dark ball. He looked around, picked a corner of the alley with the darkest shadows, and gestured again, _lifting_ a corner of reality there to reveal a much, much darker shadow. He gave the souls a negligent kick and punted them into the dark, calling after them, “Special delivery, don’t spare the torture!”

The demon dropped reality back into place, wiped his hands briskly on his pants, and was turning to survey the scene when the angel hurried into the alley. “Is everything quite all right? I heard the most dreadful row… ah.”

The demon looked at the angel with an expression that was half defiance, half guilt. “All done and dusted now. Dog here had just come across some sinners. Hell hound duties, you know.”

The angel wrinkled his nose in distaste, looking at the bodies. “I can smell it. You know I’m generally in favour of redemption, but that’s just _foul_.” Shutzi, who had been cowering against the wall, took that moment to whimper and limp toward the angel. Dog didn’t really get it, but other animals seemed to like the angel best. “Oh, look at you poor thing!” the angel tutted. “And that poor cat. Oh dear. Crowley, why don’t you take care of those… unfortunates… while I look after the animals.”

The demon made a show of sighing at being assigned a job, but gestured at the human bodies readily enough. They disappeared. “There we go. They’re off in their car halfway down an embankment. Drunk driving crash, terribly unfortunate.”

Dog had trotted over to the cat, and started licking at its back leg, cleaning away the blood. The cat hissed and gave a half-hearted swipe, but it was more for appearances than any real issue with Dog, who was known to sometimes bring in some stolen scraps for the homeless animals. Dog paused, hackles raised, when he felt the angel perform a little miracle, but Shutzi stopped whimpering.

“There we go,” the angel was saying. “Good as new. What a nice little chap you are, and with a smart collar on too, is that your address? Yes, good boy, we’ll take you home. Now, where’s that poor puss?”

Dog stood back to let the being with opposable thumbs pull off that nasty twine, then darted back in to lick at the wound. The angel fussed for a moment. “Come on, Dog, if I do the miracle with you there it will sting your nose, you know it will. Just let me—“

Dog growled.

The demon spoke. “Dog, let Aziraphale do his healing thing. The cat will be fine, promise.” Dog gave one more small growl for the sake of it, then relented. The miracle did sting his nose a little, but the smell of bleeding did mostly go away. The cat, panting a little in pain, relaxed and pulled the leg forward to give it a lick himself.

“Hm!” said the angel.

“What’s ‘hm’?”

“Didn’t quite take like it usually would. The cat’s a little… occult.”

“Aren’t all cats?” asked the demon.

“Pish! Not like that, you know it. I suspect when our little canine friend here was doing his first aid, some of his saliva got into the wound, into the bloodstream.”

“Aziraphale, are you saying that being a hellhound is _contagious_?”

“No? Well, I don’t think so. It doesn’t seem metaphysically likely, does it? And yet… well. This poor kitten is definitely a little—“ The angel went to pick up the cat. Dog grinned approvingly when the cat swiped at him, and limped over to circle the demon’s ankles with a purr.

“Well, that’s a new one for me,” said the demon, sounding pleased. He picked up the cat. “Skinny little thing, aren’t you? Why don’t you come with us to Jasmine Cottage, I bet a little occult kitty would be a smashing witch’s familiar. Yes, you would. Yes, who’s a good little familiar? Who’s a fluffy little occult kitty…” He trailed off when he realised the angel was just staring at him. “What? He’s a good cat, is all. Let’s go.”

They made a little parade leaving the alley way. Dog proudly led the way, tail high. The angel carried Shutzi and the demon carried the cat. They all piled into the Bentley – after the demon made _extremely _clear in language the animals all understood what would happen if they made _any_ little messes, and stopped on the way to drop Shutzi at the Growly Man’s house. The Growly Man was actually nice to them. He even gave Dog a biscuit. Dog crunched contentedly, taking it as his due.

At Jasmine Cottage, Dog followed the angel and demon in for afternoon tea as if he had been invited. He felt rather invested in the fate of his cat friend. He followed closely at the demon’s knee as he carried in the half-grown kitten, and when the demon put the cat gently down just inside the door, Dog took over the task. He gently grasped the cat by the scruff of his neck and half carried, half dragged him to put him down in front of the witch, wagging his tail and grinning at her.

The cat glared at Dog, but he nudged it with his nose. _Go on_, he thought. _You’re into a good place here. Purr. Look cute_. The cat narrowed its eyes at him one more time, then turned to the witch, lifting one paw in entreaty and giving a pathetic miaow. Predictably, the witch cooed and scooped up the cat, stroking it while the angel explained the recent excitement.

Dog trotted back to the front door, and scratched at it ‘til the demon came to open it for him. He had more patrols to complete, after all, and it was clearer than ever that even quiet Tadfield needed him to help keep it safe for his Master.

The demon dropped to one knee to give Dog another quick pat before he went out, slipping him a bit of sausage pulled miraculously from one pocket. “That was a good day’s work, Dog. You’re a very fine Hellhound. Who’s the best hellhound? Yes, you are. Yes, you are!”

Dog gave the demon’s hand a lick and trotted out, tail held high.

Yes, he _was_ the best hellhound.

_Tadfield Advertiser, “Bodies identified in fatal car crash”. Police confirmed that the bodies of three men discovered in a fatal car crash outside Lower Tadfield have been identified. Their names will be released after their families have been informed. Police also say that the cause of the car crash has been positively identified as alcohol-related, and they are not conducting any further investigations._

_Tadfield Advertiser, “Rash of animal injuries ceases”. Local animal refuges and veterinarian offices have noted with relief that the recent series of apparently-purposeful animal deaths and injuries has ceased. Over the last few months animal lovers and pet owners had been distressed to find both wild animals and pets either injured or deceased, with wounds apparently inflicted on purpose. Mrs. Vivian Mulcher, chairwoman of the Tadfield Benevolent Society, whose beloved cat “Puss” had to be euthanised after it was found shot with BB pellets, said that it was a relief, and that she hoped that the “miscreants are rotting in [expletive deleted] hell.”_

_Tadfield Advertiser, Letters to the Editor. “Don’t worry, they are. -C.”_

* * *

“Oh Crowley, you _have_ to try this one!”

Crowley tilted his head towards Aziraphale, who was enthusiastically making his way down the apple slices laid out as samples for the public at the Annual Tadfield Apple Festival.

“I’m not much of a fruit person, you know that,” Crowley said offhandedly, half his attention on two of the apple-growers ahead who seemed _primed_ for a tiny nudge into a nicely grubby grudge.

Aziraphale was still nibbling on a slice, eyes closed, looking beatific. “I know, but I think you must make an exception. Here, just _smell_ it!”

Crowley sighed and turned, only to find a slice of apple right in front of his face. He rolled his eyes behind his glasses, but dutifully took a big sniff.

He felt his heart skip a beat. (Literally.)

A particularly snakish tongue flickered out, smelling/tasting the air. The _fragrance_ of the aroma, the sweetness of the hints of the juice, the perfect _apple-ness_ of it all! Crowley lowered his chin so he could meet Aziraphale’s eyes over his glasses. Aziraphale beamed at him.

“I’m right, aren’t I? It’s the same variety—“

“Yeah, haven’t smelled anything like that since Eve took her first bite. But how on _earth_ did—“ Crowley looked at the grower’s name displayed on the table next to the slices. “—R.P. Tyler manage to grow these in the middle of England? The climate is _entirely_ wrong, for starters.”

Aziraphale was about to reply when he had to jump back to avoid the Them, who had darted in to grab a handful of the apples and run off again. “Best as always!” Adam yelled as he took off, smiling cheekily and waving at a glowering R.P. Tyler, who was slightly too late to prevent the theft of his apples. As always.

“Ah.”

_Tadfield Advertiser. “R.P. Tyler Wins Apple Festival for Eleventh Year in a Row”. Local resident R.P. Tyler has taken out the Best Apple prize for the eleventh year in a row. Mr. Tyler has been a long-standing success in the local competition, with his cultivars winning sporadic success since he first entered as a teenager. However, in recent years his ‘Eden’ cultivar has been a consistent champion. Deirdre Young has taken the top apple jam prize, and new-comer Anathema Device has been a surprise winner in the apple pie category. Next in the calendar for local growers and enthusiastic gardeners is the potato festival. Entry forms can be collected…_

* * *

Tadfield at Christmas was a picture postcard. Snow lay fluffy and soft over the village, like a feather duvet, rather than icy, dirty slush. Golden light poured through windows at dusk, the snow-muffled silence occasionally startled by screech of laughter from children out making one last run down a hillside on a newly-gifted sled.

Aziraphale made his last farewells to Anathema and Newt, and walked (not quite waddling, because he still had his dignity, but it was a near thing) to where Crowley was waiting, leaning against the Bentley. He contemplated folding himself to sit in a car, and winced, turning instead to sit on the ground, leaning against the stone wall. “Do just give me a moment, my dear,” he said to Crowley, and went to far as to unbutton his waistcoat with a sigh of relief.

Crowley slid down on his left to sit next to him, and hissed slightly at the cold, wrapping his hands around his arms and shuffling closer to the angel. Aziraphale had found the chill rather refreshing after the warmth of the house had started to feel sweltering, but obligingly waved a hand so the snow under and behind them moved to each side, leaving them sitting on a cool patch of grass at the base of the wall with a small wall of snow on either side. Between that, the Bentley in front and the wall behind, it was a rather nice little hidden spot for the two of them.

Crowley relaxed slightly as the cold receded a bit, but stayed leaning against Aziraphale. “Overindulged a little, angel?”

“It would have been rude not to! There were so many things to try – Anathema had that lovely American pie, and both Mrs. Young and Mrs. Pulsifer sent over all those side dishes, and young Newt really _had_ tried with the ham…” Aziraphale’s stomach gurgled and he winced a little. You couldn’t really miracle food away the same as alcohol – if nothing else, it wasn’t really pleasant to have it land back on the table – so all he could do was give a little nudge to his digestion so it worked a bit more efficiently than human standard. He burped, loudly, and blushed. “Excuse me.”

Crowley sniggered. He was in a much better state, having only nibbled on the various dishes, his only overindulgence the familiar one of wine. “’Sss nice though.”

“Pardon?”

“Being invited like this. To Christmas. Or whatever your” – an expressive handwave – “traditional mid-Winter thanksgiving feast is, which is Christmas these days. Never really done that b’fore.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement. “Yes. It’s jolly good fun, isn’t it? I mean, it’s odd how there’s all these traditions that are really quite new, the whole tree thing, that’s fairly recent and it seems such a bother with dragging a whole tree inside your _house_… oh Crowley, you didn’t!”

Crowley smiled smugly, and turned to press his cold nose against Aziraphale’s warm shoulder. “Humans came up with it,” he mumbled into the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat. “But I may have helped popularise the whole thing. Then I came up with the fake tree, once everyone loved the real ones.”

“Well! It can all be rather lovely, when it’s done right. The… the togetherness, the effort they all put into giving each other joy.”

“Doesn’t have much to do with the birthday boy, does it though?”

Aziraphale sat for a moment, then took Crowley’s hand, squeezing it as they both remembered that poor, brave, _kind_ man suffering horribly on the cross. “I think he’d like it. Not the gross consumerism, of course—“

“Of course.”

“—but, overall. It’s nice.”

They sat quietly for a minute or two, listening to the voices and the clink of dishes as the pair in Jasmine Cottage tidied up from dinner. Crowley turned his hand so his fingers were interlaced with the angel’s. There was a squeal of laughter from inside the cottage, then a certain contented silence.

“Think they found the mistletoe?” Aziraphale asked, smiling.

Crowley snorted. “Do you mean the one you put up over the kitchen door? Or the one I put up on the front door? Or the sprig I saw Newt put up in the living room, or the one Anathema hung on their bedroom door?”

Aziraphale laughed quietly. “Young love. I’m sure they’ll find all of them, sooner or later.” He looked down at their hands, and stroked the back of Crowley’s hand with his thumb, gently backwards and forwards. Crowley shivered a little – not that he was really cold – and shifted infinitesimally closer. “Of course,” Aziraphale said carefully, “there’s something to be said for old love as well. Well-aged. Vintage, really.”

Crowley didn’t say anything, but went very still, not even breathing.

Aziraphale went on. “It occurs to me that I haven’t given you a gift yet this year.”

“You gave me socks,” Crowley mumbled, automatically protesting even as he desperately wanted Aziraphale to continue.

Aziraphale huffed. “They’re novelty socks with snakes on. A token. They don’t really count.”

Crowley wriggled his toes inside his boots. “I like them,” he said stubbornly. “They’re warm.”

“They should be, they’re merino,” said Aziraphale, before shaking his head, annoyed at himself for being diverted. “_Anyway_, I haven’t given you a proper gift. I thought, perhaps….”

“Yes?” Crowley prompted, when Aziraphale took too long to gather his thoughts.

Aziraphale took a breath, the cold, biting smell of snow overlain with the closer warm, spicy scent of Crowley. He deliberately put his right hand over their joined hands. “I thought, perhaps, if you weren’t averse to the idea, maybe even liked it, we could… find some mistletoe of our own?”

“Oh,” Crowley breathed, eyes darting over Aziraphale’s face: expression hopeful, smile a little tremulous. With a faint sulphur-tinged pop the ivy clinging to the stone wall found itself surprised to have acquired a rather out-of-place mistletoe plant.

Aziraphale’s smile relaxed a little and he beamed at Crowley before leaning in to gently press his lips to Crowley’s mouth. “Was that all right?” he asked, sitting back a little. “Not too fast?”

Behind the sunglasses, Crowley’s eyes were wide and a little wild as he teetered between requited love, strangled lust, and now sudden indignation. “I didn’t miracle up a whole bloody mistletoe plant to be kissed _without tongue,”_ he finally said, hoarsely.

Somehow, Aziraphale’s beaming expression became even more so. “Oh! Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint,” he said, right hand moving to the side of Crowley’s neck to hold him steady as he leaned in for another soft kiss, this time parting his lips to allow the slightest flick of tongue against Crowley’s upper lip. He made a small sound of pleased surprise when Crowley’s tongue darted out to meet his own and chase it back into his mouth.

Aziraphale found himself surprised to be breathing a little more heavily, almost panting a little. Of course he had kissed before, part of the curiosity of trying out his corporeal body, but that was Making an Effort, and had always felt a little, well, _dutiful_. Nice enough, but after trying a few different combinations and varieties in his first few hundred years on earth the novelty had run out and he hadn’t really bothered. Besides, once he’d bumped into Crawley again for the first time, humans had started seeming rather unappealing for intimate company. Pleasant, but so _young_.

Crowley’s slightly snake-ish tongue flicked out to lick his lips, and Aziraphale found his attention transfixed by the motion. “You know,” he said, not looking away from Crowley’s mouth, “I’m really feeling a lot better now, up for a drive and all that. Perhaps you would like to come back to the bookshop with me, have one last Christmas toast…”

Crowley grinned happily. “That sounds like an _excellent_ idea. And you know, I can’t wait to get you out of—“

“Oh, _Crowley_!”

“—that _hideous_ bowtie. I know you like tartan, but the red and green together? It’s a little much, angel.”

“It’s _festive!_” Aziraphale yelped. He tried to sound stern, to frown, and found himself completely unable to. Crowley looked like he was trying to smirk but his expression too was betrayed by the happiness tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, come on then,” said Aziraphale, standing and giving Crowley’s hand a tug to help him up.

The Bentley was, miraculously, as warm inside as if it had a heater running. (It didn’t). Crowley shot Aziraphale a crooked smile in thanks and started the car.

They held hands all the way back to London.

As for what happened at the bookshop – FADE TO BLACK.

_Weather Observations: Tadfield enjoyed another white Christmas, with light snowfalls clearing on Christmas Eve, leaving the day crisp and clear for all to enjoy. According to the Met Office, we can expect this to hold through ‘til after the New Year with the occasional light flurry, although they have the usual warning about driving on icy roads._

_As usual, Tadfield is unique in enjoying this weather, our own little microclimate making itself known again! Neighbouring towns have had an early snowfall melt away, and their current forecast is for rain and sleet over the next fortnight._

_Any youngsters who were lucky enough to get a microscope for Christmas should take the opportunity to observe a peculiar phenomenon that has struck Tadfield since Christmas Day. We all know that every snowflake is unique, but the snowflakes currently falling in Tadfield include ice crystal formations that are new to science. Although the crystals form in straight lines, we’ve been surprised to see little hearts in the middle of each snowflake!_

_We don’t know how long this phenomenon will last, so make sure to check it out while you can._


End file.
